


(Im)promptu

by Idjit_01



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Caring Sherlock Holmes, Confused John Watson, Eating Disorders, Gen, Johnlock could be read as slash or not, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft Holmes-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idjit_01/pseuds/Idjit_01
Summary: Mycroft's only eaten two Danish pastries, three chocolate chip cookies and half a bag of sour creme flavored crisps when someone barges in through the front door.He starts to panic when he hears the door opening, the urge tohide hide hide it allthrumming through his veins, but he can't really move.TW: Eating Disorders.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	(Im)promptu

Mycroft has just gotten home after a long couple of days at the office working on solving the paperwork and covering the messes of Sherlock's last few messes, or, like he likes to call them, 'solved cases'.

He hasn't been able to sleep, but despite the bags under his eyes he swears he's not tired. There's this weird rush flowing through his body. 

He knows it well and hates it, but knows it's best if he just embraces it and doesn't wait until it swallows him and he implodes.

It's an urge so strong it shames him to the core.

But he gets it. Everyone needs a way to cope, something to help them _survive_.

There's a cupboard in his home office which is locked as if it contained classified information. If anyone asks him, that's what he'll say. _He's_ the British government after all. It would be stupid to doubt him.

He walks slowly towards it, knowing that if the urge isn't strong enough, _which rarely happens_ , he won't bother to spend the few seconds it takes to unlock it. In that case, the urge usually subsides after a nap or some exercise.

He thinks about going to the kitchen and fixing himself something healthy, like roasted salmon with baked baby potatoes, or a salad without dressing.

But he knows it's one of those days. He's itching for something stronger. 

It's time to really cave in.

Even though the craving, the _need_ , is strong, he's not as impatient as one would expect.

He takes a sampling of each product of the variety in the cupboard and organizes them on the coffee table right outside the office by color and flavor, going from white to yellow to brown to blue and from sweet to bitter to salty in a way that both ways of organizing the food are followed at the same time.

Lastly, he takes a bottle of coke zero of 1'5L, two jars of water and a cup and places them whithin reach.

The table is overflowing, and, frankly, it looks like it's going to crack.

He looks at the time, 11:37pm, takes his jacket off and rolls his sleeves up.

It's time.

Mycroft's only eaten two Danish pastries, three chocolate chip cookies and half a bag of sour creme flavored crisps when someone barges in through the front door.

He starts to panic when he hears the door opening, the urge to _hide hide hide it all_ thrumming through his veins, but he can't really move.

He wants to finish eating. No one has the right to interrupt him when he's _doing his death_ , and, well, he seriously doubts it's a national emergency.

It's hard for him to focus as a haze usually muffles his mind while his mouth and teeth and tongue take over, but he manages to stand up sluggishly and listen.

When he hears two sets of footsteps, a lighter one followed by a heavier one, he sighs.

He really doesn't have the wits to deal with Sherlock and his companion today, but it's rare they come to him instead of calling him or forcing him to go over, so he hurries to the entrance of the flat hoping to get rid of them as quickly as possible or at least leading them away from his weakness.

He clears his throat and flattens his sleeves as he enters the room, as if taking control of the situation that way.

"My dear brother and his lap dog," he greets, "what do I owe the pleasure, today- Or rather, tonight?"

Sherlock squints at him and Mycroft knows he's already messed up. Well, it's not like he cares. Sherlock will probably just throw a snarky comment at him, get to the point of his visit and hopefully leave.

"Mycroft." John replies with an eye roll, then looks nervously at Sherlock as if to urge him on.

Mycroft looks up at the clock in the wall. When a minute passes, he sighs in exhaustion.

"Sherlock, really. I don't have the time or the will for your games today."

He tries to stay still under Sherlock's unrelenting stare, but he's itching and buzzing underneath his skin and really wants to go back to his previous activity, so he surrounds his wrist with his other hand's fingers and curses silently when he notices what he's doing. That's an old habit of his that would give it all away.

"Well," Mycroft breaks the silent. "If there's no point for your presence here, it's time for you to leave. It's late and I'm rather exhausted."

Sherlock shares a look with John and nods, though Mycroft isn't sure if John has actually gotten the message Sherlock is so desperately trying to convey.

"I'm going to make some tea." John announces, and Mycroft thanks his past self profusely for deciding not to let himself slip up in the the kitchen ever since he ate a pound of butter in the middle of a dazed binge.

"The fact that you can't tell only indicates that you've gotten yourself too far in in old habits again, _dear brother_." Sherlock finally blurts out. "You're looking worse to wear. Should I call Mommy a-?"

A pang of pain flares in Mycroft's forehead, but he isn't sure if his very noticeable flinch is due to it or to Sherlock's irritating voice.

"Sherlock," he utters, voice raspy and exhausted, conveying more emotion then he's allowed himself to feel in a lifetime. "Just... Tell me what you want or leave. I'm very busy."

Sherlock blinks. "John's making tea. It's past midnight. It would only be kind of you to offer us to stay tonight."

"Well, then we're all lucky that I'm not kind." He snaps.

Suddenly he feels his brother's taller and skinnier figure hovering over him closely and he looks up, uncertain. When he feels him moving his hands as if to touch him, Mycroft quickly slips off the embrace.

He's disappointed in himself that he doesn't sway like he would have if they had come before he caved, cursing the lack of black spots as it only means he's letting himself slip too much lately. It's not working if he doesn't suffer because of it. He doesn't feel light.

Sherlock huffs.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"Of course," answers Mycroft, berating himself because _he answered too fast_.

"What did you eat?"

"Steak with a side of salad." He answers, getting seriously annoyed at Sherlock and hating himself for _still_ not knowing why they came there.

"Sure." Replies Sherlock, talking as someone does when they know they're being lied to.

Mycroft sees him open his mouth again to say something more, when John calls them from the kitchen.

"Tea's ready!" 

Sherlock walks towards the voice and Mycroft is left there alone doubting himself. He wants to be alone.

"Where should we-?"

"Mycroft has this _lovely_ coffee table over th-"

Mycroft snaps out of it when he hears their conversation and runs to the kitchen in alarm to stop them.

They can't go there- They can't see.

"Wait!" Mycroft exclaims, a bit out of breath, when he reaches them. "We'd be way more comfortable if we just had our tea here."

"Why-?" John questions confused, while Sherlock's lips tighten in a straight line and just glares at Mycroft again with a knowing expression.

"It's just really late," Mycroft explains, "If we move, we'll take too long. I've still got a lot to do tonight."

Every words that escapes him feels like a lie, and they're such uncharacteristical things for him to say he knows even John must be suspicious by now. 

But he doesn't care anymore. He just wants it to be over.

"Mycroft," Sherlock speaks softly, tentatively, "are you hiding something in there?"

" _No._ " Mycroft whispers, looking at a spot in the wall behind Sherlock as to not look him in the eyes but not really look away either.

Sherlock hums and starts slowly pacing towards Mycroft's office.

Mycroft wants to scream, wants to punch him, to rip his skin out, _to lose consciousness and never wake up_ , but his feet are frozen on the spot.

John is looking at him in a mix of pity and confusion, as if he doesn't know exactly what's going on but still knows enough.

They don't hear anything for what seems like an eternity. 

Mycroft starts to doubt he really did anything and didn't just think about food enough to imagine giving in to it, starts to doubt he really isn't alone at home another Saturday night and John and Sherlock just irritated him enough with the sloppiness with which they solve cases to hallucinate them due to lack of sleep.

"Sherlock...?" John calls, and Mycroft pinches himself. It's real.

When John starts to make his way toward his precious coffee table Mycroft snaps out of it and follows him.

John gasps when they get there. Sherlock's just looking sadly at the table, like he had _really_ hoped he was wrong even though all the evidence pointed otherwise.

"Well," Mycroft claps once, taking their attention away from the table, wishing for it to disappear. "You should leave know if you don't want to get soaked. I know you haven't brought an umbrella with you."

"Mycroft," John shrieks. At the same time, Sherlock announces, "We aren't leaving."

"Yes, you are."

Sherlock walks over Mycroft and looks him in the eye when they are barely a few feet apart.

Mycroft moves to the other side of the table.

Sherlock sighs.

"I've been ignoring your-" Sherlock pauses, looking for the right words, "habits for as long as I can remember. I'm not going to stand by you destroying yourself anymore. I'm going to help you through it."

A dry laugh escapes Mycroft lips. John looks quite uncomfortable.

"I don't need help."

"Ye-" John interrupts.

"I don't want help, and least of all from you."

Sherlock takes a deep breath. 

"You didn't give me a choice when I was doing drugs. I don't think it's fair for you to have one either."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I'm older than you. _I_ have a choice."

"You're also smarter than me." Sherlock mutters, and Mycroft almost smiles.

"I know."

Mycroft looks at his hands. He still wants to eat.

"We just got Eurus back. I don't think it's fair to Mom and Dad to lose another child so soon."

Mycroft just shrugs. "They won't."

Sherlock lifts his right eye brow. Mycroft looks away.

"I'm the British government." He insists. "I'm fine."

"You can't work if you aren't alive." John interrupts, again. "I'm a doctor. Do you really need me to explain to you the rates of death, or incapacitation, or even just loss of brain activity in patients with eating disorders?"

He shrugs again.

"Do you want to be normal that badly?" Sherlock asks, bitter. 

"Being smarter than anyone else does sound like a lonely life," John adds thoughtfully. "Is that why you do it?"

Mycroft groans and crumples on his seat. He looks longingly at the feast in front of him and rubs his eyes.

" _Please be kind enough to leave_."

Sherlock smiles sadly. "I thought we weren't kind."

"I'm not. You are."

Sherlock looks at him disbelievingly and Mycroft points at John with his head, as if saying ' _he's made you soft_ '. 

Sherlock huffs, but stands up. He looks at the food questioningly.

Mycroft looks up. " _One last time_." He lies, and, experienced with drugs, everyone in the room _knows_ he's lying.

Sherlock looks away.

"We'll be back at ten." He announces, and, Mycroft wants to laugh histerically, more because of the fact that Sherlock doesn't go anywhere on his own anyway more than the fact that they're not really leaving him on his own.

John nods. "You don't have to do this," he says looking at the food, "but we'll be here for you afterwards anyways."

They start walking out before Sherlock suddenly stops and turns around with a crinkle in his eyes.

"Take care of yourself." He says.

Mycroft smils slightly. "You too."

He's waiting to shove the moon pies he's eyeing into his mouth until he hears the door close when he hears Sherlock hesitate in his step out.

"Happy birthday, Mycroft." He shouts and Mycroft looks at his phone to see if he's right.

He is. He wants to cry. The door shuts closed and, in cue, Mycroft crams sweetness as far as they'll go through his lips. 

He can't wait to get it all out.


End file.
